


Mizu Shōbai

by spicedrobot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bottom Genji Shimada, Costumes, Dirty Talk, Host Clubs, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Roleplay, Spanking, Top Tekhartha Zenyatta, reverse au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:40:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22247254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: When Zenyatta's busy, Genji's left trying to fill his time. A Reverse AU fic.
Relationships: Genji Shimada/Tekhartha Zenyatta
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61





	Mizu Shōbai

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been sitting on this for almost a year, and I’m not sure if there’s anyone who’s still into the [Reverse AU](https://reversewatch.tumblr.com/), but finally here’s my contribution. 

Genji hasn’t felt like this in years. 

He works late to stave it off, schedules more meetings, performs tasks he could easily delegate, anything to keep his mind racing. A decade ago, it was to stop the twitch, the chill of a dead man’s eyes on his nape. (Genji still has the ribbon, carefully folded in his nightstand, immaculate if not for the flecks of crimson. He doesn’t know if the blood is his or Hanzo’s.)

But the situation is better than it was then. The dead man isn’t so dead (even if he is confined to a shell of carbon fiber), and Genji has outlets. Ryū ichimonji bright with enemy blood. Warm, smooth hands bruising each hip, claws raising angry lines along his skin. A soft, demanding voice reducing him to a mindless, swearing mess. Genji scales his balcony at night, sometimes greeted by dark windows and a locked door, other times by an angry, loathsome omnic that would rather use him than kiss him, and hell, if that wasn’t what Genji wanted more often than not.

But Zenyatta can’t be his biggest distraction. He’s not always there: meetings, press conferences, deals on the other side of the globe. Family too, perhaps. His brother. Zenyatta talks of him little, but each mention reverberates like a bell.

Mondatta. The omnics. Zenyatta’s ambitions, threats, promises.

A worried sort of uneasiness settles as the days pass, leaving Genji sleepless. Strange habits rear their heads. Ones he never meant to outgrow, but just hadn’t needed anymore.

Pastimes that keep calls to a certain omnic from going to voicemail more than once. 

Zenyatta wouldn't be gone forever. Genji tries not to count the hours.

* * *

The club is Shimada-owned. Tasteful, compared to the establishments Genji used to frequent as a younger man. The hosts are...flamboyantly dressed, but not all. He chooses an old favorite: Fumi-chan, with long, dark curls and darker eyes. That'd always been his favorite feature of hers; a sharp gaze that said you couldn't hide anything. Not from her. The years had done little to wear out that spark.

"I hope they've given you a raise, Fumi-chan. You're too good for this place."

"This is an establishment you own, isn't it, Genji-san?" She gently intones as they enter the VIP section, quiet and intimately lit. He feels a twinge of nostalgia despite himself. He is not one to dwell on the past. "Don’t worry. I make more than I know what to do with."

"I sincerely doubt that. I remember your tastes."

She smiles then, one part demure and three parts wicked.

"Your patronage is very much appreciated."

Fumi-chan leads him into a room, spacious and secluded and just for them. He had loved this, once upon a time. It had been hard to trust anyone, even the ones he paid, but Fumi-chan's loyalty had never wavered. She lets her hands slip from his, gently urging him onto one of the leather couches at the room’s center. The soft, fuschia lights overlay everything, another plane of existence. A pretty, neon spectacle. He turns his eyes back to her.

"Would you care for a drink?" she asks.

"Please."

* * *

Fumi-chan’s eyes, long-lashed and devious, narrow as she asks him. They’d already polished off a bottle of gold label shochu, the smooth sweetness lingering on his tongue, soothing the bounce in his leg and the tapping of his fingers against the table.

They spend another half a bottle wiggling him into their largest uniform, still too small, though it _does_ grant the illusion of a nice rack. It's mimicry of Fumi-chan’s outfit: bunny ears with one drooping, a black bodice with a sweetheart neckline, fabric cut high where hips meet stomach. The stockings itch, but Genji doesn’t want to half-ass it once he’s wearing the rest of the uniform. It’s fun in the way that alcohol can make most things, and Fumi-chan has a knack for conversation that requires little participation. 

Nothing like drinking with a beautiful girl that pours heavy and speaks pleasant ambience.

“So _this_ is what an oyabun does in his spare time.” 

A startlingly familiar voice rings over the quiet rumble of distant, rhythmic bass.

Genji fights the urge to lick his lips; it would be a shame to smear the pink gloss that Fumi-chan had so meticulously applied. He leans a bit too heavily into the plush sofa as Fumi-chan, nestled at his side, stares at the intruder with pursed lips. 

“Zenyatta,” Genji says, grinning, a traitorous blush creeping along the bridge of his nose. “So you _are_ following me.” 

Genji doesn’t spare a thought to how the omnic got past security detail. (Golden tongue or golden claws.) Instead, he takes him in like a painting.

Zenyatta cleans up well. Not that he ever looked anything less than perfect, not unless it’s well into the night, robes askew and chassis steaming as he puts Genji in his place. His suit is sharp, jet black, with a thin, gold tie that matches his chrome.

“You missed our meeting,” Zenyatta replies, array carefully posed on Genji’s face. “Perhaps you were too preoccupied to notice.”

The omnic’s stiller than usual, and Genji sits up a little straighter, freezing when his array tilts towards Fumi-chan.

“Miss,” Zenyatta’s voice is even and soft. Genji shivers. “Would you please excuse us?”

Genji knows better than to argue. Fumi-chan leaves with a single glance over her shoulder. Way too clever, that one.

The door closes without a sound.

“A meeting, huh?” Genji murmurs, plucking the half-drunk sake bottle from the table in front of him, taking a quick sip. “I don’t remember—”

Zenyatta’s array flickers, a timeless instant that turns Genji’s nervousness into a smug twist of his lips. 

“Oh, Zen.” His grin widens. “Jealousy does not become you.”

“Jealousy?” Zenyatta says the word like a novelty. “What would become of my reputation if I could not keep my sparrow caged?” The omnic tilts his head, array flaring. “You would do well to mind your tongue.”

The ice of Zenyatta’s retort tears into his body with unexpected bite. How many times had that same tone dropped Genji to his knees? They stare at each other, one unreadable, or so he thinks, and one open like a book, a secret lingering between its pages. 

Then, Zenyatta sinks onto the couch opposite him in a single, fluid motion.

“If you wished to play hostess, you need only ask, _Genji-chan_.”

Jarring, as if the room suddenly tilted a few degrees, Genji’s heartbeat picks up, the grin loose and stupid on his face.

“Heh. Sure.” 

He smooths his hair into place, brushed silken by Fumi-chan an hour earlier. Barefoot (there hadn’t been shoes that would fit) he kneels to survey the low shelf of alcohol beneath the table.

“So, Tekhartha-sama.” The honorific rolls easily off his tongue. They had played like this before, and the memory heats Genji deliciously. “Would you care for a drink?”

“The Junmai Daiginjo.” 

“Excellent choice.” He withdraws a navy bottle with a gold neck and a delicate mizuhiki knot. 

Zenyatta leans his faceplate into his palm as Genji pours, his array bright teal in the blacks and purples of the room. Genji feels each pinpoint on his body as he sets a glass in front of Zenyatta and takes his place next to him. Rather than comforting coolness, the space between radiates like stoked coals. 

“Describe its taste.”

Genji huffs, leaning to retrieve the glass, his uniform taut and clinging. He makes a show of it, and why not? Zenyatta’s buttons are difficult to press, but Genji knows the sequence. Rather than demurely slip, he tips his head back, neck long and exposed, bisected by a lace black choker that bobs as he swallows.

“Sweet, faintly rich. A wave of sakura on the wind. Honied like melted sugar.” Genji feels the ghosts of Zenyatta’s hands on his body, bruising, possessive fingers.

Zenyatta _tsks_. “I have no taste for sweetness.”

The way Zenyatta says it thrills him.

“Liar,” Genji singsongs, finishing off the eight thousand yen glass in a single go. 

It’s the drink; it’s Zenyatta hot against his side. 

He moves with the ease of honed reflexes, but Zenyatta does not startle, does not move an inch. His metal is warm, the hidden slit of his mouth widening ever so slightly at the press of glossed lips.

“Well?” Genji whispers against his chrome.

“All I detect is that cheap wax on your lips.” The words rumble from Zenyatta’s synth. 

Genji smiles, leans back just enough to see the pink shine smeared over the omnic’s mouth.

“At least tell me I’m pretty.” 

Genji drapes his arms around Zenyatta’s shoulders, slipping into his lap like he belonged there. Hostesses didn’t do this. They didn’t kiss their customers or want them so badly they could hardly keep still.

 _Oh_. The thought slams through Genji’s mind, debilitating, dizzying. _I have it bad_.

“You are beautiful.” 

A hand settles low on Genji’s back, warm enough to startle. Then it slides up his spine, sinks into his hair, tugging just enough to set Genji’s teeth on edge, a groan shaken from his chest.

“Especially in your suffering.” He pulls harder, until Genji’s back is a bow arched at his mercy. “How soon you forget your place. Infuriating, how much you enjoy being put back in it.” 

“Y-you love it,” Genji wheezes, chest heaving, cock desperately trying to tent the impossibly tight fabric clinging to it.

Zenyatta doesn’t say a word, but the gentle hiss of steam kisses Genji’s throat, his skin shivering into gooseflesh. 

“What did you expect, coming here? Did you think I would be balls deep in pussy?” 

The omnic tightens his grip, yanks his hair, throws him to the floor. Ice and charm demanding penance, his life balanced beneath the slender curve of Zenyatta’s sole. 

At least, that’s what Genji expected. 

Zenyatta stills, lifeless as a mannequin. As if he had powered down without warning. Only his array burns and his systems thrum, companions to Genji’s confusion. In every past conversation, flirtatious and cruel, locked against one another, standing adjacent at a cocktail party, bathed in pre-dawn glow, as fragile as the single star in the light polluted sky, _this_ is where Genji had misstepped, in this strange, offhand joke. Seconds from stumbling through an apology, a swear flies from Genji’s lips instead.

Thin arms twist around his back, tug him against the hot metal of Zenyatta’s chest, cheek pressed into the pistons at his throat. He doesn’t breathe. The omnic doesn’t move. 

But he doesn’t let go.

Slowly, he weaves his arms behind Zenyatta, settling his hands as gently as a question along the plates of his shoulders, intricate, familiar. How many times had Genji grasped them, held on like he would be lost? He relaxes into the embrace, seconds spinning into minutes. Maybe longer. (Who could say?)

“Zen.” The warmth of his words fogs the metal of Zenyatta’s pistons. “Don’t worry.” He grins. “Your pussy’s the best.”

The room shifts, pain blossoming, properly this time, along his scalp. 

“I think,” the crisp snap of a frozen branch rendered perfectly in synth. “That is quite enough of that.”

A claw scrapes beneath his choker and yanks, toppling Genji over his lap, a scramble until Zenyatta has him just where he wants him, Genji’s face smashed into the cushions and his hips squarely over metal thighs.

“Okyaku-sama, not here. Mama-san will be angry with me,” Genji wheezes in a half-baked falsetto. 

The first swing forces an embarrassing squeak from his lungs, his cock throbbing, dampening his uniform. The thin fabric does not protect him from the singing metal of Zenyatta’s hand; half his ass hangs out of the damned outfit anyway.

Zenyatta always leaves such pretty marks, each a sense memory burned into his flesh, like a tattoo, like scars, dangerously earned, a trophy for just the two of them. If only he could mark Zenyatta in the same way, scratch his chassis, dent that elegant face for his next televised speech—

The flurry of blows steals his breath, his thoughts a chaotic blur beneath Zenyatta’s hand. He writhes, the friction burning and stinging, but he needs it, some release, to be freed, to fall beneath the unwavering glare of an omnic array. His array.

“You are cruel,” Zenyatta bites.

Genji laughs, breathless and wild, before a deluge of whimpers and swears and painful, moaned pleas replaces it. His hands fist uselessly in the cushions next to to his face, itching to tug his arms behind his back, hold position like Zenyatta had commanded time and time before.

 _Cruel_? Genji supposes he is, even when he’s the one helpless, trying to rub one off against segmented thighs as he’s spanked raw and stupid.

The pain abates, the slaps ceasing for a harried shifting. He feels Zenyatta unbutton his pants, shove his hand down, withdraw. The omnic tugs Genji’s uniform aside, the bunched fabric squeezing tender, inflamed flesh. His vision blurs, pain and pleasure popping and bursting, overshadowing and fading into each other. A frictionless slide, Zenyatta’s fingers, coated with his own blood-warm slick, smear between his Genji’s cheeks. The omnic spends no time teasing, a mean finger tracing around Genji’s opening once before pressing deep to the second knuckle.

“Please, more—”

“Don’t. Speak,” Zenyatta hisses. 

Genji buries his face into the cushions, angling his hips up, back, begging for the brutal touch, and a second finger presses inside much too soon, painful.

“Please, need it. Need you, Zen—”

The fingers curl, slowly, barely catching against that addicting spot that weakens his vision. Genji’s worst distraction, the touch, and the man touching him, laid bare, the only one who knows—

“You listen when it pleases you and disobey at whim. Perhaps I need to adjust your punishments.”

Genji scrambles when Zenyatta withdraws his fingers, does everything in his power to follow the motions of his hands. He reaches for Zenyatta’s cock, delighting in the harsh jut of it through his slacks.

“Put your hands on my shoulders,” Zenyatta orders, and Genji complies. 

So close, Zenyatta’s array momentarily blinds him as he plants his knees and arches, pressing them chest to chest. His cock throbs, nipples tight and sensitive against the stiff bodice, wanting more than anything to rub against Zenyatta, find his pleasure while his array burns a permanent afterimage in his mind. Seeing each of his imperfections, the secret knicks next to his lip and along the secret port just above, every time he closes his eyes—

Zenyatta cups his ass, spreading him open, and Genji groans, the smarting marks flattened and bright hot in his grip. The blunt press of cock brushes where Genji’s worked open and aching, and he tries to bare down, but Zenyatta holds him steady.

“You want me to fuck you hard. Hurt you?” He tilts his array. “I will not.”

There isn’t time for confusion as Zenyatta lowers Genji onto his cock. He bites his lips, spreads his thighs, waiting for the breath-stealing thrust that never comes. Instead, he sinks like quicksand, inch by inch, slow, way too slow, slower than Zenyatta’s ever taken him. Even when he edged Genji to tears, there was always a cruel speed to it, no nonsense like a one-two punch that kept him unbalanced and helpless, willing to give Zenyatta everything.

Zenyatta’s cock doesn’t feel like a human’s. The shape is right, but it has a strange give, the pre teal and copious, slicking up his insides. Even with what little preprepation Zenyatta granted, the first press turns liquid smooth in moments, a soothing, agonizing salve. Genji wants to feel it for days, even when Zenyatta isn’t there, to remember it when he sits, when he’s schmoozing elites, the omnic’s claim aching inside his body. He twists and strains, swearing under his breath.

“Zen, c’mon—fuck me, please.” The words are shameless, his balls drawn tight against his body.

Zenyatta tips his chin up a degree or two, never looking away from Genji’s face, his hands vice-like and unforgiving as they lower him. Another moment of agony and the backs of his thighs meet Zenyatta’s. A rumbling groan, eyelashes fluttering, head tossed back.

“That’s it, yeah…” Genji pants, licking his lips, clenching around Zenyatta, falling forward to bite along his pistons, drag his tongue over the soft black column of his throat.

Zenyatta laughs, two gentle huffs. Then he lifts Genji as slowly as he lowered him, precise, calculated motions. It’s not nearly enough, like they’re young lovers, though they never had such a gentle beginning. Men like them never did.

No dirty words. No orders. Zenyatta breathes and steams, groaning quietly every time he fills him completely.

Genji’s heart hammers in his throat. He keeps his face tucked where Zenyatta cannot see, painfully aware of each slow, even thrust, the sound of Zenyatta’s body, the waxing pain leaving only this soft, swelling pleasure. Genji’s leaking inside the uniform, afraid to even look at how badly he’s ruined it. Zenyatta starts to roll his hips, fluid pumps that meet Genji’s descent, harsh gasping replacing any silly, teasing jabs Genji can’t even formulate. Zenyatta, delicate-looking and light, easily overpowers him, had on so many occasions, but in his arms now, holding him upright, rocking Genji onto his cock with perfectly timed thrusts, Genji trembles. Trembles in the wake of each quiet, wet smack only for the cycle to repeat, waves reverberating, hypnotic. Flushed as if his whole body had been lashed, sweat beading, gleaming along scars and skin.

“Zen—”

He bites Zenyatta’ pistons, whines into the damp, shining metal, lower body liquid and bright hot. His gasps are quiet, hesitant things, weak but unstoppable. 

“Are you close?” The words are strangely devoid of normal sharpness, shockingly breathless. 

“Y-yeah. I…” Genji stumbles. His fingers shake as they come to rest on Zenyatta’s back.

There’s a tremble in Zenyatta’s frame, small at first, barely noticeable, lost as Genji is on the teetering, dangerous point of pleasure, motions singing in his blood but not enough to push him over. A single hand on his cock, a snap of Zenyatta’s hips. Something...anything...

“Please,” he whispers into the side of Zenyatta’s jaw.

A hitch. A quiet, synthetic gasp. He hikes Genji’s hips higher, takes all his weight, pumps into him with just a little force. Genji swears, deep and low; he doesn’t even know what he’s saying, only that it quickens Zenyatta moreso, a searing brightness ricocheting through his body, whiting out his vision. Endless, he writhes under its thrall. 

Softness at his back. Wet, sticky warmth at his front. His mind cobbling together the pieces. The teal of an array, lights flickering, closing the distance. He kisses Zenyatta, tasting pink, waxy gloss, warmed by the metal.

Another broken gasp, Zenyatta moving, still buried between his thighs.

“The costume really does it for you, huh.” 

After a moment, they both laugh, Zenyatta resting his array to Genji’s sweaty forehead.

“I will not be done until I steal that wit from you.”

“Better get to it, then,” Genji murmurs, wrapping his calves around Zenyatta’s lower back, urging him forward, deeper.

More, more. 

More.

* * *

Genji’s naked by the time they are finished, marked, aching and exhausted, splayed shamelessly on the ruined couch.

Zenyatta, only slightly less worse for wear, sits on the floor in front of him, the back of his head resting on the cushions.

Sated, it's easier to ignore the being that occupies most of his waking thoughts.

"Hey, Zenyatta."

The omnic rolls his shoulders incrementally, his array glowing and softening to an unheard melody.

“Take me with you, next time you leave.” Genji stares at the ceiling. "I think I need a vacation."

The omnic's quiet for a moment. Genji hangs onto every second.

"I believe you are correct." Zenyatta tilts his head enough to see Genji's face. "Where should we go?"

"Numbani. Rialto. Anywhere."

"A tempting thought. I have wanted to show you off. However," he hums. "You have business here."

“I can just leave Hanzo in charge while I'm gone." Genji’s voice is light, teasing.

“Maybe you should.”

Genji sits up, wincing from settling aches and pains. He wouldn't mind a smoke. Maybe he could steal one off McCree when that idiot isn't looking.

“And why would I do that?”

“He is loyal, keen on not bringing shame upon the family a second time." Zenyatta turns fully towards him. "I could have you at my beck and call always. My human pet.” He smiles without a face to show for it. "Give it some thought. I would certainly make it your while."

An answer to his restlessness, packaged with a bow. Genji remembers Hanzo's stilted words, modulated from his respirator, tight and formal and annoying as he'd ever been. Pathetic. Genuine.

"You'd say anything to keep me under your heel," he scoffs finally, more seriously than he means.

"You are blind not to take the olive branch he offers."

Genji works his jaw in the lingering silence. He watches Zenyatta in the gloom, suit mussed, array dim, and sighs. 

“Take me home?”

* * *

He dozes on the way back, tucked into Zenyatta’s side, lulled by the omnic’s promise.

Zenyatta standing along a sandy shore, backlit by the setting sun. Zenyatta sitting across from him at a private, three-star restaurant, describing each bite of food. Scaling a mountain to see endless3.

022 snowy peaks that remind Zenyatta of home. They could rent an entire hotel, watch five hundred movies, drink all the booze and ruin every bed.

Genji buries his cheek into his warm, firm shoulder, listening to the hum of Zenyatta’s body. 

It’s the most rested he’s felt in weeks.


End file.
